


Shy Gazelle

by Isis



Category: Brideshead Revisited (2008)
Genre: Drunk Sex, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 22:37:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night after the evening of wine-tasting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shy Gazelle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kincaidian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kincaidian/gifts).



> Thanks to skazka for the assistance.

Unsurprisingly, Charles stumbles a little as he makes his way down the hallway to his room, past the disapproving gazes of a host of painted Flyte forebears. Even at one sip per glass, one glass per bottle, it would have made his head spin; and he has had far more than that. But how could he have said no to any of the glasses Sebastian handed him; to the dappled meadow, to the shy gazelle, to the string of pearls on a white neck?

How could he have said no to Sebastian?

When he had seen Julia kiss Sebastian on the lips, he had thought first: that does not look like a kiss between brother and sister.

Then he had thought: I should like for her to kiss me like that.

He had not thought: I should like for him to kiss me like that.

Not then. Not yet.

Not until well after Sebastian had, actually, leaned over and kissed him. His lips had tasted of the wine they'd dubbed 'the last unicorn', the rich and faintly sweet taste that still lingers in Charles' mouth even after he's rinsed out his mouth and crawled under luxurious sheets. Of course they both must have tasted of wine, after drinking so very much of it. But still, thinks Charles as he stretches out and closes his eyes, it would not surprise him if Sebastian tasted like that all the time.

He falls asleep immediately but wakes not too much later, thirsty, with a full bladder. It's the paradox of drinking too much, he supposes. He gets up, bleary, to take care of both problems; and when he returns to his bed, Sebastian is in it, rumpled and rakish and looking up at him from under heavy-lidded eyes.

Charles frowns. Surely the bed had been Sebastianless before. Entirely devoid of Sebastian. The room is only dimly lit by the light of a wan moon, true; but surely he would have _noticed_.

"You look done in, old man," says Sebastian. He bends down to the floor beside the bed and retrieves a half-full glass. 

Charles shudders. "I think I'm still drunk."

"Of course you are," says Sebastian, and lifts the glass toward him in a silent toast before raising it to his own lips. "Ah. Raindrops on a freshly-turned field. Are you quite certain you don't want a taste?"

Silently Charles shakes his head. He watches the movement of Sebastian's throat as he drinks. A string of pearls on a white neck, he thinks, and that brings his thoughts to Julia, and oh, if she were in his bed now…

But it is Sebastian in his bed now. And oddly he finds he does not mind, particularly, that it isn't Julia.

"You were sleeping quite beautifully," says Sebastian, interrupting his thoughts. He places the glass back on the floor with exaggerated care and pats the space in the bed beside him. "Come. It's your bed, after all."

"Which is why you're in it." But he pulls back the covers and gets in, just the same. 

"Aloysius kicked me out." Sebastian sounds wounded. "He's quite had it with me, I'm afraid. He says I sprawl, Charles, can you believe that?"

Well, it is, after all, not really Charles' bed. It is a Brideshead bed, a Flyte family bed, and if Sebastian wishes to share it Charles can hardly say no. He can be more gracious than a stuffed bear.

"You're welcome to sleep here, then," he says. "Whether you do so beautifully or not."

"I always sleep beautifully," says Sebastian. His voice drops; his smile turns wicked. "But I had something other than sleep in mind."

Charles lies very still. Of course he knows about Sebastian, his proclivities, his desires. He has known since long before the moment when Sebastian had kissed him as they sat on the portico surrounded by glasses and bottles. The marble column had been smooth and hard at his back, and perhaps that had grounded him, reminded him of who and what he was. He had not responded, but neither had he objected; and after a moment, Sebastian had pulled away.

At the time, Charles had felt relieved.

Later, remembering the taste of wine on his lips, Charles had felt obscurely disappointed.

Now, in a soft, warm bed, with Sebastian's warm hand shaping around the muscle of his upper arm, he is not certain what it is he feels. What it is he wants. 

"I don't think," he says – and there is a tremor in his voice that he fights to keep under control – "I am nearly drunk enough for this."

Sebastian's fingers lightly move up to his shoulder; they trace the lines of his collarbone, linger in the dip below his neck. "Don't worry about that, Charles. I believe I'm drunk enough for both of us."

Sebastian hovers above him like a dark angel, silhouetted in the faint light, his loose hair a halo. The scent of wine is on his lips, and Charles tastes it, drinks it in.

He can no longer pretend that he's not responding; and he has no longer the will to object.

"My shy gazelle," murmurs Sebastian. "What a fine vintage you are. I could drink you by the glassful. Quite intoxicating."

"I had rather hoped I was the last unicorn," Charles says.

"I'm afraid if you're expecting to attract a virgin you will be sorely disappointed. But, oh, what's this? I've found your horn."

Later, Charles cannot remember exactly what happened. Perhaps he really _had_ been drunk enough. 

He remembers Sebastian's hands on his face, on his chest, on his prick. He remembers Sebastian's low laugh, and burying his face in Sebastian's hair. There were lips warm on his skin. It is possible he gasped out loud as he thrust into Sebastian's mouth.

He is almost certain he gasped out loud.

He does not remember Sebastian leaving, but in the morning he is alone under crumpled covers, reeking of wine and…less savoury things. His head aches abominably. He nearly treads on the overturned wine-glass when he steps out of bed. There is a stain on his dressing-gown. The sunlight is far, far too bright.

When he finally makes his way to the breakfast-room, shaven and dressed, Sebastian is, surprisingly, already at the table, looking dissolute and debauched in his dressing-gown. This is his house; he doesn't need armour.

"Oh, dear," says Sebastian softly. "Do you feel quite dreadful?"

"Quite." He looks for tea. He'd rather not meet Sebastian's eyes.

"Entirely my fault."

"Don't," he begins. But the words are ashes in his dry mouth. He wonders if he should just turn around, leave the room. Leave Brideshead entirely. 

"Oh, no, Charles, I can't let you suffer. From now on, I shall spare you the misery and heroically drink all the wine myself."

There is laughter in Sebastian's voice, and the sweetness that is Sebastian himself, and Charles can't help but smile, a little. He takes a sip of tea. The day brightens immeasurably.

"Well, I suppose from time to time I might have a little wine," he says.

The sunlight, slanting in through the window, touches Sebastian's neck. It looks very much like a string of pearls.


End file.
